Doesn't that just suckubus?
by Child of Loki
Summary: When Declan Macrae finds himself in a spot of trouble, there's only one place he can go for help.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sanctuary or its characters…**

**Author's note: Er…yeah. Don't ask about the strange obsession with Declan I have developed (I blame the unique combination of deliciously deep voice and British accent). Also, apologies for cheesy wordplay in title.**

**Pairings: This starts off looking like it's one thing, but trust me, it's ending rather differently.**

**Characters: Declan-centric, with appearances by Magnus, Will, Henry, Kate, probably the Big Guy, some OCs**

**Rating: T for now. Things might get twisted/angsty, so let me know if I've gone too far for the rating (having never had to pay attention to them in my life, I have a hard time determining what's appropriate).**

* * *

"Hmm...that is interesting," Dr. Helen Magnus pondered, slowly running her tongue over her lower lip in a contemplative manner.

The man whose lap she was currently straddling only made a frustrated sort of grunting sound in response, likely attributed to the loss of those same lips that gave her cause for thought.

She continued her analysis. "I have never-"

Her words were swallowed in a moan as he hungrily reclaimed her lips, kissing her in a manner that bespoke a primal urgency seldom felt amongst more sentient creatures.

"Shall I forego the analyses?" she inquired breathlessly when he finally relinquished her mouth, but not his hands from her hips.

"For the time being," he replied, returning her smile. Neither of their expressions were entirely happy ones. How could they be? The circumstances were less than ideal. In fact, he could easily believe that bar the horrible inconvenience of his current condition, this particular endeavour upon which they had started would've never occurred in the entirety of their acquaintanceship, a friendship which could potentially last his entire life, although not hers.

"On the other hand..." The feel of her body against his, the taste of her mouth, the delicious warmth of her life energy had sated the overwhelming, screaming need buzzing in his head and setting every nerve in his body on edge. And regaining just that bit of lucidity brought all the doubts and concerns flooding back. He pushed her away, out of his lap, instantly feeling the cold, hollow pit reopening inside of him. It was best she left before he began to lose the battle once more. Or worse, entirely lost the will to fight it. "This really isn't the best plan."

"No!" she exclaimed before she recovered her composure, and continued in a much more quiet and controlled manner. It was not, however, any more subdued. "We have already wasted enough time in _discussion_ of this course of action. I did not yield the point then. And I shall not yield it now. You will have sex with me, Declan Macrae. And that is an order."

"Might I remind you that's an order you would not have been able to give if it weren't for my aide in preserving your position as head of the Sanctuary network," he tried to stall for time, figure out a way to redirect her focus. They might not have been as close as what they were about to do would intimate, but he sure as hell knew the woman well enough to have encountered her unwavering determination on several occasions. She had made up her mind. And once made, she was nearly impossible to sway.

It didn't help that any arguments he could make at this juncture had already been thoroughly considered by the woman, weighed against all the other factors, and dismissed. She was too damn logical for her own good sometimes.

And too damn compassionate.

A selfish person would've run for the hills. Or at least, written him off long ago.

But oh, no. Helen Magnus cared about every living creature! And she was particularly protective of those she counted friends. Well, that was a nice thought at least. He had earned the respect of the person he probably most admired in the world.

And he _should_ do all he could to protect _her_. Which meant keeping her the hell away from his Succubus-infected self!

"Get out!" he roared at her, futilely hoping to frighten her away. She did not scare easily. But oh, should she be afraid! Not many things were a threat to her. And without accident or dangerous abnormals besting her, she would live for damn near forever. Except, he could suck the years out of her with just a touch. He could take and take and take until the disease inside of him gorged itself, leaving nothing left in her.

Thus far he was lucky, lucky he hadn't done that to someone else, someone with so fewer years to take. It was basically luck that he had realized what he was doing that first time before it was too late. He shook his head.

This couldn't happen.

"I'm dangerous," he asserted. "I need to be isolated."

"I want you lucid," Magnus countered, her words sharp and clear, her assertive side taking over entirely. "It will better help me study the nature of this virus."

"Wouldn't my unhindered deterioration better suffice for charting the pathway of the disease?" he asked. Epidemiology was not in any way, shape or form his expertise, but he had been around scientists enough to learn a few things.

"Ending with your death? Most definitely not."

He gritted his teeth against the insistence of his body that a few feet was just too bloody lengthy a distance between them.

"If I'm to find a treatment, I need to understand this virus, its various affects upon you." Perhaps, she thought she could bore and confuse him into submitting to her will. "Any element of succubae physiology is notoriously difficult to isolate. Having access to this virus is a significant opportunity..."

She became lost in thought, and Declan realized there was more to her motives than merely helping him. But should he have expected less from the woman? Knowledge was her addiction, aiding abnormals her passion. He'd witnessed it dozens of times. But he'd never thought he'd be at the center of it.

And had it blinded her? Did she seriously understand the danger of what lurked inside of him. No, /lurked/ was no longer the appropriate term. It had asserted itself, stormed his body and mind. He was barely hanging onto the last thread of control. And she was approaching him once more, so close he could feel the heat of her body, smell her fragrance, sense the deep well of her life force.

When she slipped into his lap, he gave in to the hunger, gave in and no longer cared...

"Declan?"

He yawned and stretched lazily before realizing that he was not in his own bed. And a woman had called his name. He blinked. Magnus' bright eyes were but a few feet from his face. And she was perched on the edge of the bed, her hand upon his arm.

"What happened?" he groaned, attempting to rise, only to realize he was stark naked beneath the covers.

She stood, giving him room to swing his feet over the side of the bed and sit up while retaining a modicum of modesty. Her eyebrow had quirked up, a smirk on her lips.

"I don't think I've ever been called 'forgettable' before," she commented.

Oh bloody hell, he had slept with his boss! He moaned louder when the rest of reality rushed back in, sweeping him under like tidal wave.

"How's your head?" The woman with whom he was now on awkwardly intimate terms asked.

He closed his eyes, sought out the hunger. It was there, but barely a suggestion that he might require a sustenance food could not render at some point in the future. A significant difference from the overwhelming insistence driving him since that first pang.

"Clear," he croaked. She handed him a glass of water that had been waiting upon the bedside table. Gratefully, he took a long draught, soothing his throat. Lord, did he feel almost hung over, except for his thoughts were more lucid than they'd been for the past few days.

"Good." She threw his trousers at him. "This should go a lot faster, then."

"What?" He winced, already knowing it involved hours spent getting poked and prodded, scanned, and who knew what else.

"I need to run a full work-up on you," she confirmed his fears. "Compare the results to the data we gathered from your first exam."

"Great," Declan muttered. He looked at her pointedly.

"Oh, right. Sorry," she apologized turning her back so he could dress. He knew it was ridiculous considering the memory of her naked curves was still fresh in his mind, but still... He groaned again. This whole thing was so...embarrassing. She probably thought him ridiculously shy. Because, hell, she already knew what he looked like naked just as much as he couldn't shake the feel of her skin from his mind.

Could this situation be any worse?

Oh yes, it could...

"I'll want you to talk with Will when I'm through with you," she said. More like _ordered_' since the tone in her voice meant there would be no argument.

Well, that settled it. He'd have been wiser to just throw himself off the tallest building in the vicinity as soon as he knew something was horribly wrong. At least, he would've died without losing face.

* * *

**A/N: Oh, there is **_**SO**_** more. I have only just begun to play with Declan Macrae…**

**A/N: And yes, I'm aware that Succubus is the female version, Incubus the male, but there's a tricksy twist to all of this. Plus, the wordplay is so much more fun with the former than the latter.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Flashback-i-ness…hopefully not done in a confusing manner. **

**Warning: proto-smut?**

* * *

It was probably odd. Most people would likely elect for a physician's skilled hand over someone with less than basic field training to patch them up. But Declan always preferred Penny-er-Miss Hayes when the unavoidable need for medical assistance arose.

Some would call it a torturous experience, and perhaps there was a bit of the masochist in him for it, but there was something undeniably pleasurable about watching her work. Sure, being audience to a person with a natural gift (or recipient of gracefully executed sutures) was a wonderful experience. However, it really held no candle to witnessing a perfectionist tackle an undertaking unto which they held no innate skill. The world melted away for her, all except for the task at hand. He could see the focus in every fiber of her being, from the small furrows in her brow, to the way she worried her lower lip, to the muscles tensing in her forearm, bicep and shoulder as they steadied her hand.

It may take her ten times as long as a certified medic, perhaps an agonizing duration for steel and thread to be piercing already raw nerves and tugged slashed flesh together, but if she didn't bloody well produce the loveliest stitches he had ever laid eyes upon. People who knew what they were doing tended to sew wounds up fast and oft ugly, moving onto the next patient with the confidence that their work would get the job done.

Miss Hayes' uncertainty was what created such a spectacular result. Others avoided her tedious approach to medical care like the plague, and they did not know what they were missing. Declan often wondered whether he would still suffer injurious bodily harm so damn often if he weren't curious about how the next scar she'd touched might turn out.

"Are you sure you don't want Dr. Renzi or Dr. Spahn to look at this?" Miss Hayes asked, breaking his trance-like study of her trance-like working state.

"Positive," he replied without missing a beat. "They'll only berate me for getting..."

Declan hesitated. It seemed an especially ridiculous injury when one was about to say it aloud. They were rather human-like abnormals after all. And after said incident, he felt enough like he were in a B horror movie. An eerie, understated hospital scene was all he needed at the moment.

"...bitten," he finally finished quietly after clearing his throat.

The amused look upon Miss Hayes' face was short-lived, quickly replaced by her previous one of concern.

"Bite wounds are notoriously nasty," she affirmed with a frown that dimpled her cheek. "Prone to infection..."

"Just pour some more disinfectant on it, if you're that worried," he interrupted her tirade. One of the reasons he liked it when Miss Hayes patched him up was that her scolding primarily remained nonverbal. The doctors were sick of putting him back together and let him know it. Her motives appeared to remain in the realm of compassion rather than obligation. But it looked as if he might have pushed her past her limit.

Or, maybe he was wrong.

Her face lit up, and she laughed; a genuinely melodious sound that made him smile. However, his smile quickly turned into a wince as she applied copious amounts of antiseptic to the wound on his arm.

"You sound like my gran," she observed, laughter still edging her voice, along with a hint of nostalgia. "She swore by Iodine."

"You could cut your arm off and she'd convince you that if you only used enough, it'd surely grow back. Once I-"

Without warning, a pain stabbed Declan in the ribs and he collapsed onto his side with a cry of surprise. He gritted his teeth but he couldn't completely stifle the primal need to vocalize his pain, and pathetic whimpers escaped his throat.

It felt as if someone had jabbed him in the side with a white-hot poker, and so intense was the searing sensation that he could only feel the pressure of Miss Hayes' touch as though he were wearing enough layers to weather the artic. Her hands seemed to be attempting to pry open the tight ball into which he had instinctively curled himself.

Her voice, too, seemed distant. Though he could detect the rise in urgency and panic residing there.

"Sir, are you alright?" she questioned from miles away.

"Please, sir, tell me what's wrong!"

Finally, when she could apparently withstand his suffering no further, she cried "Declan!" in the most emotional utterance he had ever heard pass her lips.

A few more seconds, which seemed an eternity of agony, and the pain was gone as suddenly as its onset. A mere tingling sensation remained as he shifted onto his back, his chest heaving in an attempt to regain breath he had not realized he'd been holding.

"That was odd," he said breathlessly as he tried to sit up. A firm hand placed upon his abdomen stopped him from doing so.

"I thought you said this wasn't your blood," Miss Hayes commented, drawing his attention to his blood-soaked shirt. Any playfulness about her had completely vanished, replaced by a reasonably concerned and slightly interrogatory look. Her normally chilled hand felt hot against his ribs, even through his shirt.

"It's not," Declan asserted. He remembered the splash of blood as that particularly aggressive succubus went down, drenching his front and side in a sticky, warm mess. It had since dried, and he knew the garment was surely a loss, but thought nothing further of it.

Her rebuttal to his denial came in the form of holding up the hand she had pressed against his ribs. The harsh florescent light of the exam room glinted off the fresh crimson coating her palm. Since Miss Hayes had not sliced her hand open in the last thirty seconds- not that he knew anyway- there was no denying its source.

He was bleeding.

Shouldn't it have hurt or something? He had never bled enough to coat someone's hand after the briefest of contact without the accompaniment of some significant degree of pain. And since it wasn't enough to have been an opened artery (evidenced by the fact of his continued living), he likely wasn't numb from shock and blood loss.

"Funny that," he began, "I don't remember-"

He flinched as Miss Hayes pulled the hem of his shirt up to reveal the curious injury. The wince on his face was not a result of pain, rather of sympathy, as if he were looking at someone else's flesh sporting a gaping, oozing wound and knew the agony they must suffer. Only it was _his_ severed tissue...(could he see the white of bone?) And yet, he felt nothing but a bit of stiffness as the blood congealed and crusted on his skin.

The colour seemed to have drained entirely from Miss Hayes' face as she studied the gory mess that currently comprised his torso.

"It's not so bad," Declan reassured. "Doesn't hurt a smidge. Probably not as awful as it looks."

She gave him an incredulous look, but took the antiseptic to cleaning up the gore obscuring the true nature of the wound. A shiver ran up his spine as her hand brushed his skin, the disinfecting fluid wiping away the coagulating blood to better reveal the nature of the injury. He wondered whether there wasn't something odd in the fleeting touch of her (even through the protective layer of the latex gloves), but it was probably simply the rapid evaporation of the alcohol-base stealing the heat away from his body.

They had both dealt with their share of the stomach-turning, what with the bizarre end of abnormals and their tendency towards expelling various forms of nasty, mucus-like fluids. Not to mention the many, many injuries involved in hunting and aiding abnormals clashing with the world at large. The fact that he felt no pain gave Declan a rather detached, clinical view of his injury. And although, still atypically pale, Miss Hayes none-the-less returned to her stoic, business-like approach to providing medical care.

"Oh, lord," she whispered when she had done the best she could to finish her task, what with the blood still flowing rather freely from the gash, and even more profusely once the coagulated clots were removed. It was deep, but hit along the edge of his ribcage, and was halted from eviscerating him by the tough tissue and bone residing beneath the skin there -damn, those soul-sucking hags had sharp claws. She pressed a bandage to the wound.

"Keep pressure on this," she ordered, taking his hand and placing it over the compress.

Nerve endings stirred.

That same curious jolt of not-quite electricity running through him upon her touch. He couldn't help but wonder what her bare skin would feel like. And then her hand was gone.

He felt cold. And empty.

"I'm fetching Dr. Spahn and no arguments."

Grabbing Miss Hayes' wrist as she turned to leave elicited a startled look of consternation from her. Yet, he instantly felt much improved. There was a warm glow to her, emanating from her, like she were a crackling fire and he was standing satisfyingly close to the hearth. And he wanted to hold his hands out to warm them, to warm every bit of himself.

Declan shook his head, dispelling tempting thoughts, releasing his grip upon her wrist slightly, but not letting her completely go.

"What it is it?" she asked quietly when he only stared at her like he'd never actually seen her before.

She must have been as curious about him, his odd behaviour, as he was about the bizarre affect of her touch upon him. Because she let him run his fingers fleetingly over her bare forearm, stopping only where the fabric of a rolled-up sleeve obscured the warm, tender flesh from his probing.

But it wasn't enough.

The feeling, it was so difficult to understand, impossible to explain. And it compelled him with more than mere curiosity to pursue his exploration. Sitting up now, he was able to reach out and touch his fingertips to the curve of her neck. He did so tentatively, afraid that a more powerful surge of whatever it was might wash over him, drown him. And yet, he remained eager to feel more of the strangely alluring sensation.

More.

It just wasn't enough.

His hand moved to her cheek, a full caress of the supple flesh. Her cheek was so soft, so full, not yet wane of the vital collagen of youth. And so amazingly warm beneath his palm was it, that he closed his eyes for a moment just to revel in the feel of her. She leaned into the caress, an action that tore his thoughts from savouring what he held, instead returning him to the desire for more.

More.

Still cupping her cheek, he ran his thumb over the sensuous skin of her rosy lips. He had never noticed them before, being unremarkable as they were. They were not pouty or plump. Neither were they thin. Just sort of average, except for the fact of their exquisite shape, the kind that would leave a graphic artist's ideal behind in red lipstick upon an envelope. And while her skin glowed a comfortable warmth, her lips burned with an inviting flame.

And it might just be enough.

Declan shifted his hand around to the back of her neck, his other moving to the small of her back, and he pulled the young woman to him, slipping his mouth over hers, not in a harsh way, but one that made him impossible to refuse.

The nursery rhyme was correct.

She tasted of sugar and spice, and all things nice. However, it was the almost liquid heat of her pouring into him that drove him further, consumed what remained of his rational mind.

And it _still_ wasn't enough.

More.

More.

He needed more.

Nothing remained but the overwhelming force of that need.

...

"Did you... uh... you know?" Dr. Zimmerman interjected, disrupting Macrae from his much censored tale and undiluted private recollections.

"I don't think she'd be alive right now if I had," he replied matter-of-factly, a passive facade belied by the guilt and anxiety in his eyes.

"What happened, then, to stop you?" The psychiatrist inquired, obviously intrigued by the strange patterns and symptoms manifested by the succubae virus, despite the discomfort of issuing such probing questions to a man with whom he were, frankly, only on tenuous terms.

"I just sort of snapped out of it," Declan supplied.

...

When her lips were finally freed, she moaned his name. Like a magic spell, it had transformed him into a human being once again. He was a man, not a mindless animal driven by some primal urge.

Hastily, he extricated himself from her inviting body. Everything was a little hazy, and he couldn't quite recall doing so, but along the way he apparently shifted her to lie supine beneath him on the cold -now moderately warm- exam table. Her legs had wrapped about his waist. Her hands had roamed as much as his, over his back and shoulders, head and neck, down his chest, stomach... Her body pressed, grinding against his. Had she only been wearing clothing that granted him slightly easier access, who knew how far he would have gone?

Wiping a hand over his face and then crossing his arms, he leaned against the edge of the table, his brain trying to process the chaos that the world had become.

"What in the bloody hell was that about?" he muttered to himself.

Laboured breathing drew his attention to the young woman he had almost ravaged as she hopped down from the metal surface into which he had very nearly ground her supplicant body.

What if he hadn't snapped out of it?

Just how far would he have gone?

He knew the answer to that. That much was rendered blatant by the insistence of his body about what should comprise his next act. By how constrictive his trousers felt at present.

The really very frightening questions, however, were how much would Miss Hayes have tolerated? And what would he have done if she had resisted his advances? What if she had asked him to stop? Pleaded with him? Would he have done?

He knew the answer to that one, as well. And it caused bile to bite at the back of his throat.

But the guilt and the frustration were nothing compared to the pangs of hunger beginning to stab at his insides.

And the hunger was in no way, not even remotely, linked to his stomach.

He glanced at Miss Hayes. She was tugging at the hem of her blouse in a futile attempt to unmuss herself. Even if it were straightened and smoothed, there was no erasing the large red stain spreading across the front of the pale blue fabric. And there was a further impossible smear of blood down the front and inside thigh of her fatigues, where his open wound had rubbed against her clothed body, bleeding through the scant layers that had separated them.

Her blouse was gorgeously fitted, and he could see the roundness of her breasts bobbing up and down as she failed to fully recover her breath. It also accented the curve of her waist, but those damn fatigues she adorned obscured any other alluring curves of which she might be in possession. The flush on her skin denoted her warmth, but he could also _feel_ it. Several feet away, and he could sense the heat of her. It called to him. He wanted it. He _needed_ it.

Declan grabbed a roll of gauze, stripped off his shirt, and made a sloppy but effective job of wrapping his torso in sterile bandages, stemming the flow of blood from the nasty gash that persisted in failing to pain him. Something bizarre was going on, and he didn't like the explanations that his mind was offering. Having little options, and even less time, he threw back on the same slashed, bloodied shirt.

"Goodbye, Miss Hayes," he offered in a genial sort of way, as if he were simply passing her on his way out to market, and they were mere acquaintances, not two persons who had shared a serious snog (and nearly much more) not two minutes prior. "You're in charge while I'm away."

"Wh-what?" she stuttered. A more entirely baffled person, he had never seen in his life. But he didn't have time to explain, not when he did not possess the willpower not to do _things_ to her, things that begged to be done. In fact, there was quite the cacophony of arguments as to what precisely to do to Miss Hayes, to make her do, to give to her, to _take _from her.

"Where are you going?" she formed a coherent thought amongst all the extremely random stimuli with which he had bombarded her.

"To see the only person in the world who might possibly be able to help me."

Her voice called after him, obviously shoving aside everything it was incapable of processing in favour of something she could tackle.

"You need stitches!"

...

"So what did you do after you..._snogged_ Miss Hayes?" Will prompted.

"I got the bloody hell out of there," he replied. "I knew if there was anyone who could figure out what was happening to me, it'd be Helen."

A fleeting look of what could almost be called jealousy clouded the young man's face before he recovered his passive psychiatrist facade. Declan was quite aware of Dr. Zimmerman's protectiveness of Helen Magnus, but he had never thought there might be more to it. And why did he have to be in middle of it, where he really didn't want to be?

"So you came directly here, and when you arrived, you felt the need to kiss Kate," Will supplied what he knew.

"And Henry," Declan added reluctantly. He couldn't deny what he'd done, what he still owed apology for, no matter how little he wanted to recall his actions.

By the time he had made it to the Sanctuary, he'd been like a starving man who had gone weeks upon weeks without. And all the worse, every step of his journey had seen him surrounded by a plethora of options to sate himself. He had held off for so very long, but the bubbling life of the two who had greeted him upon his arrival had been beyond his will to resist. At least he had retained the presence of mind to take only the briefest of sips from the piquant girl. Unfortunately, it was not enough to tide him over, it only made the hunger burn worse for the briefest of tastes he had taken. And he knew he should not take more of Kate, did not know exactly what it did to a person, so he took a sip from Henry as well. The young man -werewolf- had tasted odd. He wasn't sure if it was because of Henry's abnormal side, or simply that he'd never kissed a man before.

He rather hoped never to do so again.

"That would explain the doggy breath, then," Magnus interjected, making both men jump. She had entered the room as silently as a church mouse.

Did she really have to have so much fun at his expense?

"I'm just joshing you," she added, frowning a bit over the embarrassment he could feel was apparent on his face. No doubt Will had been the recipient of such teasing from Helen before, for he gave Declan a sympathetic look.

"I do owe some apologies," he replied, the guilt for stealing a little bit of their lives outweighing the shame of sticking his tongue in their mouths without invitation. His mother would argue that she raised him better than that, after all.

"There'll be time for that later," Helen asserted. "Besides, I've sent Henry and Kate to attend to some other business."

He caught Will raising an eyebrow in Magnus' direction, apparently as unaware of his coworkers' assignment as Declan was. She didn't give him anything for his silent inquiry. Instead returned her attention to the afflicted man.

"And there's more pressing matters involving you at the moment than groveling for forgiveness," she added.

"More tests?" Declan asked.

"Results, actually," Helen corrected. "I think I've determined the rather unique pathology of the virus."

"Best news I've heard all day."

* * *

**A/N: **_**PLEASE **_**slap me if Penny/Miss Hayes seems at all Mary-Sue-like, for there's nothing I hate more than flat characters. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Er…yeah… Some more of this, if you're interested…**

With a sting, the point of the needle disappeared into the flesh of his arm. Dark crimson flooded into the vial in a near hypnotic wave. Declan sighed. He was really starting to feel like a pin cushion. At least Magnus generally could find a vein with little difficulty, which was a plus, he supposed. He wondered just how many times she had pierced someone's flesh in such a manner?

Hundreds? At least.

Thousands? Likely.

"Oh, don't be such an infant," she chided as he grimaced.

"I thought someone said 'results' were in my near future. Not more 'blood tests'," Declan returned.

Magnus smiled. Not her genuinely amused smile. Just her bedside manner one. Which was really not a good sign.

"I'd like to keep tabs on your viral load," she explained. "A normal human male is not the standard host for this pathogen. It may be adapting in unpredictable ways."

"Well, that's comforting." Maybe one of its adaptations would be to stop his heart before this got any worse. Frankly, dropping dead in an instant was looking rather appealing at this point.

_Damn. _That was a lie. He wanted to live.

For a centuries-old woman, she looked an awful lot like a small child at show-and-tell, bursting to share. Unsure whether he actually wanted to hear the details, he nonetheless indulged the woman -like she actually required his permission.

"So, what the bloody hell is this thing, anyway?" he asked.

"My working theory is that it developed within the succubae ancestors, forming a sort of symbiotic relationship over time," Magnus regaled him with her research. Her eyes were quite attractive when they were alight with excitement- even if it were from science babble. Her skin seemed to glow a bit, her lips threatening to break into a smile despite her attempt at professional stoicism.

"The virus is what feeds off the life energy of beings," she continued. Declan wasn't really listening anymore. He was a bit too captivated by that lock of hair bouncing playfully about as she talked.

"The blood-born pathogen creates several by-products, some of which the succubae physiology has become reliant upon..."

She tilted her head. The dark brown curl shifted, exposing the outline of her collarbone, the creamy skin. He remembered her taste.

"Including an interesting molecule that I found traces of..."

Whereas Penny had tasted somewhat like pop, sugary sweet accompanied with a tingling rush, Helen Magnus had been like a fine, aged wine, rich in subtle flavours and intoxicating. And Kate... Kate had been more like Penny, only much spicier. Declan couldn't say he preferred any one over the others. Perhaps it was a situation-appropriate selection. Or, as it were, a man as desperate as he was would take any variant on the theme that promised to slake his thirst.

"...needs further analysis."

Oops, how was he going to feign that he'd paid attention to any of what she had said? Fortunately, she obviated the need to contrive something.

"So, as you can see, I require a specimen for further study," she summarized. Her look sobered a bit as she returned from her engrossing world of scientific inquiry and looked her patient in the eye.

"It will also make it possible to manufacture a vaccine that could stimulate your immune system to combat the virus," she added.

"Why is that necessary?" he asked. "Can't you just give me a full-spectrum antibiotic?"

"Well, no. For starters, this pathogen is a virus and thusly antibiotics will have no effect. A vaccine is prescribed since your body isn't recognizing the succubae infection as a threat," she supplied. "And while you're not feeling ill at the moment, the pathogen is multiplying and will eventually overwhelm your system, draining your life away without the supplement of another's."

Declan sighed. "I think that's about all the good news I can handle at the moment."

She gave him a sympathetic smile.

"I'm sorry to disappoint..." she began. _Really, universe? C'mon!_

"Don't tell me I infected you," he said, a remote, but significant fear finally returning to his forebrain.

"No. That's not a possibility." she reassured. "The only reason you became infected is because a substantial amount of succubae blood found its way into the nasty gash along you ribs."

"Then what...?"

"Miss Penny Annie Hayes..." Magnus said flatly.

What about the woman? Didn't she just say that he couldn't have infected the girl by swapping spit with her, so what did she have to do with anything?

"Do you trust her?"

What manner of question was that?

"She's invaluable to me," Declan responded, rather baffled by Magnus' current line of thought. "Frankly, nearly half of all the day-to-day running of the London Sanctuary relies upon her alone."

"So she's privy to most the information that you are?"

"Yes," he answered a little harshly for the growing frustration. "But I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"London House has a leak," Helen revealed grimly. "The succubae you collected have gone missing."

"And you think Penny is responsible?" he cried in disbelief, too shocked to censor his informality. "Ridiculous!"

Magnus had raised an eyebrow over his seemingly unwarranted outrage for the accusation she had issued.

"Are you sleeping with her?" She inquired, her normally business-like facade faltering momentarily. Declan gave her an incredulous look. Green just wasn't her colour.

Dark locks bounced about as she shook her head, the hint of jealously dissipating.

"I apologize, Declan. That was uncalled for. It's just that... There appears to be some substantiation for using derivatives of succubae salivary excretions as a sort of love potion. That molecule I told you about earlier appears to have an addictive quality."

He patiently waited for her to work through her thoughts to a layman's version.

"Honestly, ever since we were together, I can't seem to rid my mind of you."

He chuckled, glad of the excuse to release some of the overwhelming tension that had consumed his life of the past few days. Might as well, while he still retained enough of his mind to do so. But Miss Hayes? How could Magnus think such a thing of the girl?

Frankly, Declan really couldn't see her being so devious for the simple fact that she appeared to lack the imagination necessary for such deceit. Don't get him wrong. He liked Miss Hayes. He had to admit he rather liked _kissing _Miss Hayes. But her strengths were really in the organizational, precision sort of tasks. And she _was_ good at what she did.

A strange sort of find, Miss Hayes was. Working as his aunt's 'home care assistant' (a glorified housekeeper as far as he could make out), she discovered a particularly ancient, nasty abnormal parasite nesting in the plumbing, and captured it by sheer methodical persistence. By pure chance, it had been the day of his monthly visit to his elderly aunt. He had arrived to find Auntie Dora sat calmly in her favourite chair watching the weather program. An odd noise led him to the kitchen where Miss Hayes had been about to dispatch an eel-like creature using a carving knife with as much calm as his aunt watching the telly in the living room. He stopped her, called for containment of the _jormungandia_ larva, offered Miss Hayes a job on the spot, and the rest fell into place.

After having to step up as head of the London sanctuary-something he had never expected to have to do, he had thought to groom her to be his replacement. Watson was never supposed to...just like that, he was gone. And Declan knew he'd nowhere near enjoy that particular brand of longevity and not just because he lacked the genius to give himself an unnaturally long life. No, having someone there who could take over without delays (that could prove dangerous) was the best option.

And come to think of it, somewhere along the line, he had become dependent upon her. It was very likely he couldn't manage without her. Wouldn't _want_ to do so.

"Are you alright?"

"No," he said quietly. If what Magnus said were true... And it could very well be the case. What did he really know about Miss Hayes? Beyond those brief glimpses of warmth, of a real personality residing within the depths of her 'loyal, reserved secretary' routine, she was terse and enigmatic at best. She was so self-contained, Declan really had no clue as to what passed through her mind. His assumptions about who she was could be entirely off and he would never know.

"You really believe that Miss Hayes had anything to do with this?"

Magnus frowned. Was the hurt of possible betrayal by the young woman so very apparent on his face? She pulled a computer monitor over and called up a surveillance feed on the screen. It was a stark room, poorly lit except for the figures in the center. And it was one he recognized as belonging to his home, the London Sanctuary. They used the spartan room on the rare occasions necessary to keep abnormals in solitary confinement when no appropriate habitations were available. And in a few instances, for interviewing reluctant sources.

"I've asked Osbourne to investigate," Magnus supplied, unnecessarily, since Declan immediately identified the man looming over the figure seated in the middle of the room on a lone chair. The quality of the feed wasn't the greatest, the camera was a wall mount a distance away, but Miss Hayes appeared to be in complete control. Her skirt was smooth and straight, the hem sitting neatly at her knees. Her ankles were elegantly crossed, her hands held primly in her lap, her spine straight, her chin firm.

A frustratingly unreadable pose. One that would make the most patient of interrogators lose their temper.

"You cannot sick Osbourne on her," he growled. "You know what that man's capable of."

"As do you," Helen countered. "And yet you kept him on."

She couldn't seriously be making a point of her disapproval of the man, her disagreement over London's decision not to cut ties with him. Declan couldn't believe Helen Magnus the type that would place a possibly innocent person in the hands of the twisted man. No, that was too severe. Osbourne wasn't a bad man, he just didn't know where to draw the line, needed reigning in. Besides that one incident, there hadn't been problems. At least not under the former head of London Sanctuary.

"That was Watson's decision," Declan argued. He had honoured it, because his old boss was always right, to an aggravating degree. And the Victorian-era genius had seen some use for the hard, brutal former-mercenary. And to be entirely honest, Declan had to admit he saw the need as well. He just never thought...

"Oh, don't you dare," she scolded. "You believed there was cause to retain such a man. And this is precisely the type of situation for which you had done."

The room grew tensely silent.

"How's the patient?" Dr. Zimmerman asked, cheerfully walking into the room and breaking the loaded silence between the heads of house. His natural geniality sobered a bit as he quickly read the room. And then he saw the surveillance feed.

"Who's getting the 3rd degree?" he asked, walking up to the monitor and studying the live image there.

"There's a leak in London House," Magnus explained to her second-in-command. "And unfortunately, Miss Hayes is the likeliest candidate."

"Miss Hayes?" Will commented, turning to face Macrae with a cocked eyebrow. The development obviously intrigued him and his piercing gaze scoured the confused, hurt man for hidden insights. Declan looked away and the younger man released him without comment, returning his attention to his boss.

"What's with the Gestapo Guy?" Will inquired of Magnus, indicating the intimidating figure leaning over Miss Hayes and whispering whatever was the polar-opposite of sweet nothings into her ear.

"Frank Osbourne," Magnus replied, a hint of disdain detectable even under her remarkable reserve. "A _specialist_ under the employ of..." Declan snapped his eyes up to meet hers. A fierce gaze exchanged between them. He would not back down. She could not blame him for her dislike of the man, and her distaste over her present use of his skills. "...The London Sanctuary network."

"Wait, isn't he the guy who-"

"Yes, Will, he is," Magnus interrupted. Apparently, she didn't even want to hear about the previous incidents involving Osbourne's overzealous nature. "I've sent Henry and Kate. They'll keep an eye on Mr. Osbourne. And hopefully track down the missing succubae."

Declan noticed a protest die on Will's lips. No doubt the young man was about to object to not being deployed along with his teammates, to instead remaining where he wasn't really needed. It was just as obvious that Magnus had spared him the embarrassing objection he _would _have made had she indeed sent him across the pond along with the others. For it was obvious to all in the room -whether or not they were aware of one another's knowledge of it- that Will Zimmerman was extremely protective of his boss, distrusted Declan on some significant level, viewed his affliction as a direct threat to Helen Magnus, and was perhaps even a bit jealous of the awkward, bizarre intimacy between the head of house that had been necessitated by the situation.

"I have no doubt they'll get things sorted," Declan voiced his confidence in the pair despite his doubts. It was the only way he could see of breaking the once more thick tension that had accumulated in the room. Silently, he wondered whether there was a damn thing the spunky girl or brilliant werewolf-geek could do to resolve the whole mess... _his_ mess.

**A/N: Some exploits of Kate and Henry next, just for something different…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Wow...really shouldn't have taken this long, considering the gap that needed filling to complete this bit was relatively minor... **

**And now, some Kate and Henry just for the fun of it!

* * *

**

Sure the joint was seedy; poorly lit, cluttered, dusty, a little bit greasy. And desolate, excepting a couple shifty customers prowling about and the equally shifty, portly proprietor of the establishment. He was on the back end of 'middle-aged' with a puffy face, puffy eyes, puffy belly, and well just about 'puffy' everything. And he stood, scrutinizing them in a sly manner from the other side of the counter.

Yet despite all of these factors melding into a rather appropriate setting, Kate Freelander would still have preferred to conduct such _business_ in the back room, or even the sketchy alley behind the shop -anywhere, really, just not in such public view.

Then again, her assigned 'partner in crime' for her current endeavour looked rather ill-at-ease for the low digs where they had ultimately arrived after a particularly lengthy and frustrating goose-chase. He probably -okay, definitely- wouldn't respond well to finding himself in the type of circumstances that would've made Kate feel more at home whilst involved in these sorts of dealings. As it was, he currently was making them both look like newbies. And in any city's underbelly, one needed to appear like they belonged, not like they just got in off the boat, or hay wagon, or wherever rubes originated from. Basically, it was 'blend in', or be taken for a ride.

"What's bothering him?" the proprietor, a Mr. Ralph Feinstein, asked as if indicating the universe's consensus with Kate that she'd do a hell of a lot better on her own, rather than being saddled with Fidgety McGee two steps behind her.

Not that she didn't like the guy.

To be perfectly honest, Henry Foss was the closest thing to a friend she had possessed in years. Pathetic, yes, but true. In her previous lifestyle, she had been required to know a hell of a lot of people -business associates, contacts, customers, dealers, informants, smugglers, mercenaries- but not one you'd trust to watch your back. And none of them friends.

It was also probably true, perhaps undeniably true, that he was the one person (abnormal or otherwise) at the Sanctuary that she was closest to. She liked the others. And she was fairly certain they liked her. But for some reason they continued to keep her at a distance. Whether it was her acerbic tongue, former career, questionable morality, or the fact that she was low man on the totem pole, she wasn't sure. And she couldn't really blame them, either. They were all survivors. And she knew too well what sort of hard shell was entailed in order to survive a harsh world.

But wolfboy had seemed to accept her as much as he let anyone get close.

"You know what? I don't particularly like the look of you two," Ralph interrupted Kate's reverie. "Could be informants for the fuzz for all I know."

Kate put on her black market business facade; a smile equal parts sweetness and shark.

"Frankly, Mr. Feinstein, you're not worth the trouble of an undercover op. And I would very much like to do business in London in the future," Kate placated. For all her sarcasm, she did possess the ability to sweet-talk when the situation required.

"So, do you have the merchandise I'm looking for?" she prompted.

"What's the deal with your bloke?"

The plump little middleman was just not going to get past the blatantly nervous man who had begun twitching his nose like mad five seconds after setting foot in the shop and was currently sneezing up a storm. Kate fought the urge to knock her _friend_ on his ass. Instead, she settled for elbowing him in the chest rather forcefully.

"He's a tech geek. You know the type..." she explained away Henry as he choked and growled for the blow she had dealt him. "There's a reason they're not let out of the lab much. But he's good at what he does."

"And what's that?" Ralph seemed sincerely puzzled by the concept that the sniffling, coughing young man could be good for anything.

"Verifying the product you're going to hook me up with," Kate answered without missing a beat. She slid a conspicuously fat envelope across the counter.

Mr. Feinstein shrugged whilst discreetly pocketing the 'finder's fee.' Good thing Magnus had some deep bank accounts...

"Follow me," he directed, heading for the back of the shop.

"Wait, how am I supposed to do that?," Henry hissed in her ear. "Cause you can forget it if it requires me to kiss a dude" he cleared his throat. "...again."

Kate was too irritated by her friend to assuage his fears with 'they're female, idiot.' Instead she reveled in his discomfort, opting to exacerbate it.

"Hey, Hank, when Macrae kissed you, did he do that weird thing with his tongue, you know, with the-" she began.

"Uh, yeah," Henry cut her off, shaking his head in a nervously quick manner, looking as desperate as anyone she'd ever seen for a change in subject. She didn't relent.

"Didn't you find it a little bit sen-"

"Shut-up."

"Because I found it to be quite-"

"Let's go."

He grabbed her arm and hurried her along in an attempt to leave behind the conversation and recollections he doubtless never, ever wished to recall.

...

"I thought Macrae said the stunners didn't work," Kate commented. Normally, she would've been teasing her companion who was absorbed in the tech splayed out before him. But a dark warehouse potentially full of life-sucking abnormals had a way of putting a girl on edge.

She was standing with her back to the make-shift work table, scanning the dark recesses, 9mm in hand. But Kate Freelander was a multitasker, and she could sass and defend at the same time.

"While they are a most impressive piece of tech, if I do say so myself," Henry commented, still concentrating on the work before him, "A megajule of direct electrical current to the nervous system is an entirely different story."

"ZAP!" Kate acknowledged. Oddly, Henry had managed to reassure her of their plan. "Nothing takes down a sucker like a bug-zapper, eh, Hank?"

"That's the idea."

The shadows shifted. Her trigger finger twitched.

Chasing down -being chased down- by deadly abnormals in a dark warehouse in the sketchy part of a foreign city. Actually, not that much of a rarity. Being so creeped out that her body was liable to bolt at any given moment with or without her consent; that was odd for her. And the fact that she was so very freaked by her surroundings only scared her more.

In the corner of her eyes, the shadows shifted unnaturally. She had accounted for all light sources in the dark building. It wasn't a difficult endeavour, considering they were grouped around Hank and herself. Two stationary lamps lighting the young man's workspace. The flashlight in her hand. None of them had moved.

And yet the shadows had shifted.

This place was as creepy as hell, and her friend was taking his damn time to do his whole MacGuyver-meets-Scotty thing. Hmm... was there something about the Scottish that they produced cob-job engineering geniuses?

Kate started.

Her nerves were so fricken raw -tingling, straining, as if to alert her to any danger. So wound up were they, that a mere whisper of a breeze against the back of her neck had startled her.

"Hurry it up, would you?" She snapped at the man who was muzzle deep in random tech.

"Patience is a virtue, Katie," he replied in a sing-song-ish voice without looking up from the project laid out before him on some overturned crates.

"Not in here, it isn't," she muttered under her breath.

Every instinct in her was boiling. She was edgier than a tweaking junkie. She had to give the man credit. Stupid as he was to get tagged by one of the life-sucking bitches, Macrae had to possess some serious tracking skills to capture the crafty abnormals. And to corner them in what appeared to be their favourite environment -dark, spooky-ass warehouses- he had some serious cajones, too. Of course, being in possession of either trait didn't preclude idiocy. In fact, Kate had found the ballsy ones to be especially short on the grey matter.

However, she had to admit that she was really no better, realizing the stupidity of finding herself in her current circumstances as she stood in a pitch black, fully stocked (likely with stolen merchandise and corpses) warehouse, watching shadows that most definitely weren't shadows as her only companion attempted to rig some sort of large scale bug-zapper.

A seemingly random grouping of shadows began to take on a familiar form. Kate strained her eyes, willed her brain to pierce through the scattered shapes to find the image beneath, just like in one of those pointless magic eye pictures.

And then the effort was no longer necessary.

"Hank, we've got company," she announced, tightening her grip upon her firearm). She slowly backed towards her currently unarmed friend...

Several hundred feet away, from her perch atop a towering stack of crates, looking down upon the trespassers huddled by the faint light in a vast darkness, what Helen Magnus would term an 'abnormal' could feel the bubbling of the life energy of those below.

They were so... _alive. _Tantalizingly so. Young, strong -the pair would provide a sumptuous feast. That is, if there weren't so many attendees to the banquet, demanding a portion of the main course.

It was not the life to which she had been accustomed. By nature, her kind were loners, extremely protective of their territory, the prey contained within its boundaries.

But alas, the world had changed.

The hunger had not.

And now, humans were more... just _more_. More populous, more wary, more communicative. It had become difficult to survive on one's own, especially whilst eluding detection. The clan at first had been all conflict with little benefit. But once Alpha had asserted herself, proven her prowess, ingenuity, strength, they had all fallen into line. And the ease of acquiring sustenance was more than enough to justify submitting to the will of another.

All the effort of the game -the stalking, the preparation, the adornment of the facade, the seduction- It was no longer necessary every single time the hunger became pronounced. They took turns playing the bait when Alpha was not running one of her elaborate cons to bring them a haul fit to keep them fed for days, if not weeks. Yes, she was a crafty one -a young one- but clever and willful.

She'd have to keep an eye on Alpha.

The hunger -the _need_- tore at her, every single part of her. She clenched her teeth, twitching as her body attempted to defy her will and pounce. The hunger had been so great while being held captive in _that place. _And the meager offerings they'd managed to dredge up since they'd been freed did nothing to sate.

So hungry. Starving. Just a nibble. All she needed was a morsel, a meager taste to keep her going. But she fought it. Knowing that though the previous trespassers had killed two, their little 'family' still numbered strong enough to rip apart any who stepped out of line.

And they would. So obedient were they -it was disgusting. Unnatural! Following a bitch like a pack of werewolves!

Speaking of, what was taking her so bloody long?

Movement in the shadows on the ground level. The others had taken high ground, like her, like Alpha had taught them, to better scope out their prey. The deliciously vibrant young woman twitched. Anxiety wafted off from her, a tantalizing aroma to the initiated.

The old ways, hunting alone, required the skill of seducing the prey, of tricking them into willing submission. Coaxing, petting and stroking them until they gave you precisely what you wanted. The new way required no such subtly. Prey were often filled with anxiety, terror when the pack feasted. And they had all developed a taste for the intoxicating novelty of the flavour.

These two were steeped in such tantalizing fear -perhaps, because they knew, really _knew_ what lay in the dark surrounding them.

Ooh...a third! A tempting figure, female and curvy, judging by the silhouette against the pathetic glowing light of the anxious pair's nest. Women had always been more difficult in the past, when seduction had been necessary. She was experienced, skilled, but she had only successfully pulled a few. Men only required the suggestion of a naked woman to entirely submit. For women, sex was all in the head -it took more work. But since terror seemed to work just as well when one possessed strength in numbers, the more the merrier...

But wait.

Her aura was wrong. She was like a cold spot, an abyss, sucking energy in rather than dispelling any.

This was no woman.

"Whoa, lady!" Kate kept her gun trained on the newcomer who had emerged from the dark. Damn! The former mercenary had checked and rechecked the warehouse prior to entering, but apparently she had missed a vital gap.

"Stop right there," she barked. The woman did as she asked, but in a manner that left no doubt as to who was in control of the situation.

_I'm the one with the gun. _Kate had to remind herself in front of this...this... you know. She was one of _those_ chicks. Almost a femme fatale. So confident. So gorgeous. Despite the trench knotted closed about her waist, every curve of the woman was apparent. Hidden ones seemed to present themselves directly to the brain though the eye couldn't specifically locate them. And even in the poor lighting, she could see the striking features of her face. Smooth, high cheekbones. Full, pouty lips. A perfectly manicured eyebrow quirked inquisitively.

"Who are you? And what the hell are you doing here?" Kate asked.

Finally pulled from his work, the geek jumped upon the realization that someone else had apparently found their way into the warehouse.

"Holy- Who-Who's that?" he exclaimed.

"Shut up, Hank! I've got this. You focus on whatever it is you're doing," Kate snapped at her friend without removing her eyes from the odd woman standing before her. She gave her the heebie-jeebies and for some dumbass reason the lady had slowly begun to approach the slightly pissed-off girl with the gun. Stupid!

"I said, Don't move," she hissed between clenched teeth.

"I just wanted to show you this." Her voice was like honey, a bit mesmerizing, and all soothing. But Kate wasn't one for being coddled like a child. She was always anticipating the next fall, the next scraped knee.

Perfectly manicured nails offered identification, but at such a distance that begged Kate to lean in a little closer. _No dice, sister!_

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked instead, proud of herself for not being a complete fool and falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book.

"My name is Lorraine Wilcox." Miss Wilcox smiled. It was a sparkling smile, full of straight, white teeth. _Not unlike a shark's. _"I'm from the Sanctuary. Osbourne sent me to check up on you two."

_Likely story._

Kate only realized that she had been slowly backing away from the unsettling woman when her ass bumped against the crate Henry Foss was using as a makeshift worktable.

It was indefinable, but something changed about 'Lorraine' Something subtle, something that raised the hairs on the back of Kate's neck. Something that made her trigger finger itch as Miss Wilcox approached. Something that darkened the woman's eyes.

The smile on the pouty lips remained. All innocent and the more sinister for its apparent innocuousness.

Movement in the corner of her eye made Kate's heart jump, but she remained focused on Miss Wilcox There was no doubt which threat was the most imminent. Probably not actually possible, but Kate could swear that she felt the others pressing in... they had definitely found the place, the nest of the London clan of succubae.

"Any time, Hank," she said out of the corner of her mouth, her voice sounding strained.

"Just a minute," he responded. God, was it a knee-jerk reaction with that man?

_'We're all going to die.' _

_'Just a minute.'_

_'The world is going to end in a fiery explosion.'_

_'I just need a few more seconds.'_

_Well, we're screwed, then, aren't we!_

"God! Why does Magnus keep you around, anyway?" She cried, desperately wanting to unload her clip into the creepy-ass woman who was practically within arms' length, knowing she had no real grounds to do so. What if she weren't what Kate thought she was? What if she was who she claimed to be?

_Dammit! Hank!_

"For things like this," Henry announced grabbing her bodily and pulling her to the hard cement floor, as a flash of light exploded over their heads.

The sound wave was a nanosecond behind and deafening. Yet she heard the thumping of deadweight as bodies hit the ground.

"Alright!" she cried, jumping to her feet in the excitement of escaping whatever dreadful fate had been closing around them.

"Well done, Mr. Foss," she praised, mimicking Helen Magnus' old school dialect as she helped him to his feet. He smiled shyly.

"I have my moments," he said quietly, proud in that little boy way of his, like he had won the science fair rather than taking out half a dozen life-sucking abnormals.

"I'd say so," Kate affirmed, shining her maglite about and counting bodies. She prodded Miss Wilcox with the toe of her boot, just to be sure.

"How long do we have?" she asked.

"Not very," Henry replied. "Hour tops."

"We had better get to work, then..."

* * *

**A/N: Kate and Henry for the save...but is it enough or in time to aide Declan?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Was only missing a bit in the middle to finish this fic off, so finally updating… (completion imminent)**

* * *

"How are you feeling?"

"How am I feeling?" Declan scoffed at the young psychologist who was Helen Magnus' right hand man. The head of the London Sanctuary had been confined to one of the secure medical labs with nothing to do but worry. And to slowly fall into a viral-fueled madness. The urges were beyond desire or lust. The need was a hunger that possessed his every thought, hummed in every nerve. "Let's just say that you're looking mighty attractive at the moment.

"And no offense, Dr. Zimmerman, but you aren't even my type."

"Guess I should cancel that bottle of champagne I ordered, then," Will said.

They both chuckled, but Declan could tell neither of their hearts were invested in the levity. His hands dug into the arms of the chair he was sat upon in an attempt to ground him to the spot. For he could sense the burst of life force emanating from the younger man with the brief amusement. And it was damn near irresistible.

If Will noticed his discomfort -and given the man's special observational abilities, he had- he gave no indication.

"I thought you might be interested to hear that Henry and Kate managed to secure the entire nest... hive...?"

"Pack," Declan said. This was potentially good news...

"Right. Anyway, the kids are bringing home a pet and Magnus is already doing the prep work for developing a vaccine. So..."

"Fingers crossed, I'll be free of this Kissing Disease from Hell in a few days." His voice no doubt showed his uncertainty, because Zimmerman nodded reassuringly and echoed, "Fingers crossed."

"Thank you," Declan said, assuming, _hoping_ the conversation was over and that the psychologist would leave before his self-control failed and he ended up kissing a man for the second time in his life, and less than a week for that matter. Or possibly more… The thought made him queasy and simultaneously appealed to a specifically ravenous part of him.

"That's not what I thought you'd really want to hear about," Will said.

_Damn. I don't bloody care. Just leave. Whatever you think is important can't be worth this torture, _Declan thought. He said, "What is it?"

"Are you familiar with a Lorraine Wilcox?" Will asked.

The name sounded familiar but it took him a moment to place it.

"Yes," Declan said. "Bit of an expert in cryptobiology. We took her on at London a few months ago."

"Apparently, she's actually a succubae."

"Are you certain?"

"Kate was pretty convinced. Something about 'soul-sucking bitch' and 'damn dark warehouses' and 'sluts in short skirts.' "

Declan couldn't combat the smile taking over his face. Spicy, savoury Kate. Her instincts were good enough for him. Her assertions even better. Henry had probably backed her up, their vibrant life energies a brilliant spot in the dark, empty warehouse. An absolutely irresistible lure for the succubae. Hell, he found just the thought of the pair bursting with excited energy beyond tantalizing. How satisfying it would've been to take them. More than satisfying, a downright sumptuous feast. Second only to the realization of the tempting taste that teased the deep recesses of his primal brain... the succulent Penny.

Penny. There was something, some concern about the woman he should remember. What was it? Besides that her lips were like sun-warmed fruit, her skin like fresh cream, her life energy the nectar of the gods.

Declan glanced down, focusing his eyes through the buzz of need and desire on his hands still gripping the arms of the chair. His knuckles had turned white. The physical pain of it was a welcome distraction from the inundation of other signals inundating his nervous system.

_Penny_.

"Miss Hayes has been cleared, then?" he asked, finally realizing what Will was trying to tell him.

Will nodded, with a superior grin that said 'I know what's going on here.'

Declan wished to give the younger man no further reason for smugness, but he couldn't help but sigh in relief. The thought of Pen-Miss Hayes being duplicitous had hurt him in unexpected ways, which he had not really the capacity to consider at the moment. He wished he could see her again. Touch her, kiss her...

Will thankfully interrupted the lascivious turn of Declan's thoughts, asking, "You know what's odd?"

The head of the London Sanctuary raised his eyebrows, as much as in questioning why the psychologist was still in the room when he must know the temptation it was to the declining condition of the afflicted man as in response to the conversational baiting.

"No," Declan said when no answer was forthcoming. "Won't you enlighten me?"

"Miss Hayes..." Will suddenly seemed uncertain that he wanted to broach the subject he had so enthusiastically raised. A deep breath, and he seemed to steel himself to it. "She looks an awful lot like Helen Magnus."

Silence.

How in the bloody hell was he supposed to respond to that?

"Don't you think?"

Penny Hayes resembled Helen Magnus? They were nothing alike. Well, there was the dark, wavy hair. And blue eyes. And womanly curves. But, no, they weren't...

"Honestly, the thought never occurred to me before," Declan said.

"Just something to think about," Will said, finally rising to his feet to leave the poor, abused, dying man in peace.

_Well, not so much peace_.

Because what in the bloody hell did Will Zimmerman mean by drawing his attention to such a comparison?

* * *

**A/N: Should be wrapped up in a couple chapters (barring an insane urge to completely rework this fic, which is not something I generally tend to suffer)…**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Delicious, angsty bit…(that was written way back when I first started this fic, because the twisted angst is always my favourite)  
**

**WARNING: Sensitive readers may find some imagery disturbing. (As always, I appreciate if you let me know if you think this merits a higher rating, since I'm rubbish at knowing boundaries. Thanks.)  
**

* * *

The sheets of the narrow hospital bed tangled round him as he tossed about, plagued by the tormenting, feverish dreams of illness.

_Your viral load is substantially high," Magnus had warned before administering the vaccine that would turn his body against the virus. "This course could very well kill you. At the least, make you extremely ill."_

_Her hard scientist facade softened. _

_Hell, Declan would be the first to admit the title of 'cynical bastard' may be apt when applied to him. And that was with under four decades on the planet. Helen Magnus could claim over fifteen and she still retained a compassion he felt he'd never know._

_He tugged at the restraints binding his wrists to the bed, preventing him from jumping and sucking the life from any one of those ministering to him._

_"Nothing can be worse than this."_

It was worse. Much worse.

The only consolation to him would've been that it wasn't real, if his fever-addled brain could've arrived at such a conclusion.

As it were, reality seemed a dream. And he dreamt reality.

He dreamt of every woman he had ever been with, every woman he had flirted with, every one he had kissed and cuddled. Every woman he had made love to, who had made love to him. Those he had given his body to. Those he had given his heart.

He dreamt of them all. Of their eyes, of their lips, the warmth of their touch. The teasing scent of their hair, the seductive taste of their skin. The maddening feel of their flesh that both comforted him and drove him wild.

He dreamt of taking them in his arms, Of discovering and exploring that secret place deep inside of them. He dreamt that their life's energy was the faint glow of an orb that lay hidden in their bellies, pulsating with the rhythm of their heart. If he could only delve deep enough, he could shatter the fragile vessel like delicate Venetian glass, the liquid energy of their souls spilling forth to be lapped up by an eager tongue, consumed, absorbed.

And he dreamt that he did precisely so.

One after the other he rent them open, taking that which was most precious to them for himself.

Then he dreamt that he was in the London Sanctuary infirmary once more. It was colder, darker, vaguer than a memory. And yet, at the same time, it was more real. The memory was a haze, like the one that had clouded his mind then. But he dreamt the reality of it.

He dreamt of Miss Hayes standing before him, carefully tending a wound that wasn't a wound. He dreamt of kissing her, of touching her, picking her up and laying her upon the cold, unforgiving metal table. Of pinning her body with his own. Of running his hands over the entirety of her, his tongue in her mouth and on her skin.

And he dreamt he saw the orb in her as he had done in the others. But different somehow. She, herself, her skin, glowed as the fragile thing deep inside of her did.

He dreamt the call, the call that was no dream, and he would have the sweet nectar of Miss Hayes as well. And then he dreamt that he did not stop, did not return to his senses as he had done before. He dreamt of the outcry that passed her lips over his brusque violation of her. He dreamt of his pursuit for the evasive spark of Miss Hayes, even when she asked him to stop. She pleaded, she begged, but he would not, _could _not desist. He would find the orb and puncture it, and consume her soul.

He dreamt that the glow of her skin turned to a luminescence as he continued his frantic, desperate search in the depths of her belly. He dreamt that tears like golden rays of sunlight spilled down her cheeks. He dreamt of her excruciating pain, of his consuming lust for the destruction of the orb, for the taste of its contents.

He dreamt that she burned as bright as the sun, that the light inside of her was blinding. But he could not restrain his lust, his thirst. He dreamt that after an eternity of agonizing pleasure, a river of golden tears and tenderised flesh, he finally discovered Miss Hayes' elusive orb and shattered it as he had done for the rest. He dreamt that a brilliant flare of light consumed her as he did the nectar of her. He dreamt that afterward, he held Penny in his arms. And she was not warm. And she was not sweet. And she was not soft. And her hollow eyes stared at everything and nothing. And he had destroyed her as he had all the others.

He dreamt he was a monster.

And he dreamed reality.

…

He'd awake to a glass of water at his lips, a cool compress at his forehead or neck, only to fall back into the tormenting dreams once more...

…

Over and over, he dreamt of the women, of their destruction at his hands. He even dreamt of Magnus who could not be destroyed by the grotesque, inhuman hunger that possessed him. But in his dreams that were both reality and not, she, too, succumbed.

He dreamt of Miss Hayes. Of kissing her lips that bled where his mouth had been. He dreamt of running his tongue over the fullness of her breasts, leaving behind a hideous scar as if his saliva were caustic. He dreamt of parting her sweet cream thighs and penetrating the lush, soft tissue they concealed. And he dreamt that a river of blood poured forth from where he pierced her flesh and washed him away. He dreamt of the struggle to keep his head above the surface of the viscous, iron-noxious fluid. He dreamt that he could not. That it flooded his nose and mouth. And then he dreamt that he found it pleasant to the taste and he no longer cared. He dreamt that he sunk into the depths of her life's blood.

He dreamt that he drowned in Penny's death.

…

He awoke and vomited until there was no fluid left in his stomach. The Big Guy held a bin for him, wiped his chin, held a tumbler of water to his lips, making sympathetic noises but saying nothing. Very perceptive, that bloke. Any words would be painful to Declan, any acknowledgement of his suffering misconstrued by his twisted, burning mind into condescension and pity.

No, the afflicted man never wanted to see another human being again. Never wanted to talk to one. Never wanted his existence to be acknowledged. He was a plague. A monster.

He tried to curl himself into a tight little ball, but his wrists were still secured to either side of the bed. The bland ceiling tile became the focus of his thoughts, as they swirled from self-pity to self-hatred to pure hellish insanity in which they found no purchase at all.

Eventually, he fell asleep. And he did not dream, for his fever had finally broken.

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**A/N: Woo! For insane, fever dreams! One chapter left, I think… ;-)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Last bit for this particular fic... enjoy?**

* * *

"What are you doing here, Miss Hayes?"

The young woman who had been staring into the distance started, obviously not expecting his consciousness, let alone words. Instantaneously, she was at his side, reaching out to touch him, to take his hand, only to withdraw it awkwardly before making contact.

"I thought I'd left you in charge," Declan said with a feigned tone of admonishment. The teasing tone faded entirely as he digested the consequences of her presence. "Don't tell me you've let Osbourne push you out."

"Not at all." She smiled mischievously. "Believe it or not, he actually does feel a little remorse for his snap judgments as to my loyalty."

That _was_ difficult to believe. But good for Miss Hayes! The only real thing preventing her from becoming a good leader was her apparent lack of assertiveness, an inability to take solid command of others. But it looked as if she had found other ways in which to deal with the dearth.

"That still does not explain why you have abandoned your post, Miss Hayes."

"How many times do I have to ask you to call me 'Penny', sir?"

Not at all trying to change the subject are we? To be quite honest with himself, he was happy to see her despite -or perhaps because of- the disturbing wraiths of feverish nightmares still lingering in his psyche. Unwilling to see any harm, any discomfort however small come to her, he allowed her to dodge his inquiry.

"Apparently, one less time than I have to ask you to call me 'Declan'," he said. A pink hue rose in the roundness of her cheek and she averted her eyes. No doubt recalling their last face-to-face conversation... He felt the heat rise in his own skin over the remembrance of her feel, her taste. Not to mention the evil fantasies that featured the young woman.

"I believe I owe you an apology, Miss Hay-Penny." Simultaneously he was too embarrassed to look at the prettily blushing brunette, and couldn't keep from studying her reaction.

"No." She cut him off sharply, a slight look of alarm in her eyes, before she continued more reservedly, quietly, but no less adamantly. "Please don't."

Declan hesitated, if only out of pure bafflement. Why shouldn't she want him to apologize? Was what happened (_admit it, man, your near assault of her_) something she did not even wish to recall through his making amends? Maybe she was trying to tell him that she knew it wasn't his fault, that he wasn't quite himself? Or was it...

She met his eyes, and then hastily looked away once more.

It was purely, sincerely, out of selfish reasons that she did not wish to hear those words. He saw it in her crystal blue eyes; the anxiety, the hurt, that he might take back how he touched her, kissed her, _wanted _her.

An awkwardly silent moment stretched on between them. There was nothing he could think to say. How _did_ one respond to such a revelation, especially a nonverbal one? Neither could deny that her feelings weren't known to both, but nothing had been said, nothing was irrefutably real in the way only words lent solidity to expressions.

"Temporary heads of household are required to keep their incapacitated (or otherwise deemed incapable to discharge their duties) superior apprised of the status of the sanctuary so that they may be better reintegrated upon their reinstatement." She quoted one of the bylaws no doubt penned by Magnus' own hand a hundred or so years ago. Her spine straightened, her eyes hardened a bit, and Miss Hayes returned to the business-like state within which she always appeared most comfortable.

She began reading aloud a list of updates for situations that had been volatile, investigations that had been imminent, and the minor internal political squabbles he had been sorting when he had fallen ill and left abruptly. Admittedly it was a slight blow to his ego, but she had appeared to resolve basically all of the problems that supposedly required his intervention. From there, she proceeded through research updates, very briefly mentioning the majority and only touching more in depth upon the ones she knew held a particular interest to him.

Damn, she was bloody good. And bloody beautiful in her understated way. While he was on a confession spree, he might as well cop to adoring observing her even when she was all business and boring reports. The way she brushed a stray dark lock of hair behind her ear. Or how she worried her lip or chewed the end of the pen when she was deep in thought. How she relaxed into the formality of it, seemingly entirely at ease despite the straight spine and daintily crossed ankles (no doubt the work of that old school gran of hers). And often so damnably cold, unattainable in that alluring fashion generally attributed to sexually repressed librarians with a hidden kink to them.

But she had warmed to him -_oh, how she had warmed to him_- and he hadn't even realized. And now it was likely too late. Would he ever be able to touch a woman again without destroying them? Miss Hayes was almost temptation enough to try to find out. That was, if he had read that glimpse of her carefully guarded emotions correctly, that she might want him to try...

"You do know there are such things as the telephone?" Declan said before she could work her way down the list to the severely trivial. If she were trying to break him through monotony, make him forget the look she had given him, she could think again. "Or to be shockingly modern, email."

He caught her off guard. There was no rehearsed response. A gentleman would not point out a lady's emotional susceptibility, and thus she must not have expected it of him. Because for some reason beyond him, she appeared to think him such a stalwart example of manhood. Hell, she probably hadn't expected to reveal so much to him in the first place. Her only thought had been to be at his side.

"I...er…" She stumbled shyly for a moment. "I wanted to see for myself that you were alright."

Glancing sidelong, she gave him a small smile. He stared at her a bit. Really, he just couldn't help himself. It was as if he had never truly seen the woman before. Strange, what a viral-fueled snog can do to one's world. Honestly, he couldn't deny that he had appraised her in a non-platonic fashion before. He was a man after all, and to be perfectly frank, there probably wasn't a woman he'd ever encountered that hadn't been considered, at least in some part, by his brain (or other bits of anatomy) in a sexual light -even if only to be immediately rejected.

The similarity in features between Magnus and this ripe young girl were even more apparent now that he were aware. None would mistake one for the other, but they were of the same type, for certain. Whereas the revelation had only led to confusion upon its first assertion into his conscious mind, its consideration presently led him to a much more solid conclusion. His latent attraction for Miss Hayes had not been a result of a subconscious desire for Helen Magnus. Rather, his ease and acceptance of intimacy with the gorgeous leader of the Sanctuary network was a result of a burgeoning attachment to the young woman currently at his bedside.

Concern bit at him when he finally noted the dark circles ringing her eyes.

"You look tired," he said.

"I am a little." She gave him a weary smile.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked.

He recognized the look of determination on her face. "It's fine. You're the one we're supposed to be worried about."

"If we're both incapable of running London house, it'll fall to Osbourne," he said, equal parts seriousness and humour. "And that's a mess I rather die than attempt to tidy up."

She laughed lightly.

"Likewise."

"Go have a lie down, Miss Hayes." A bit of command returned to his voice. "And don't tell me that Magnus didn't provide you with a room, because I know better."

"I don't-" She sighed, and began to look timid once more. When she spoke, it was soft, barely audible, and she refused to look him in the face. "I rather stay here, with you."

"Penny, you need rest," he said, drawing her attention as much by the informal address as the hand he placed gently under her chin. When she lifted her face, he noted that she had flushed in that simultaneously frustrating and endearing, shy way of hers. And yet there was a smoldering in her blue eyes. Bloody hell, she could play the coquette.

An enticing notion, which he most definitely should not entertain, crossed his mind. He shifted over as far as he could on the narrow bed, freeing a meager few inches beside him, and patted the space whilst raising an eyebrow in a facetious manner.

"Plenty of room."

Her mouth twitched, a smile beginning in her pursed lips and spreading outward to her whole person. And just like that, her reserve apparently snapped. Within seconds, she was hopping up onto the narrow mattress beside him. Well, mostly on top of him, curling about his side with her head resting on his shoulder, a hand against his chest. He snaked his arm about her, hugging her close and she cuddled into him, contented noises emerging from the back of her throat.

Declan couldn't help but sigh -as much in relief as in pleasure over the physical contact. There was no denying Magnus was brilliant, that he trusted her implicitly and with his life. Yet despite all that, doubt had continued to plague him, through his hellish battle with the virus, the mad feverish dreams, and even beyond to his recovery. Perhaps it was the loss of control it had signified, the hunger, the hunger that might never leave him, that might be there at the edge of every single thought he had for the rest of his life.

But here he was, with a delicious morsel of a young woman in his arms, and he had resisted ravaging her so far. Not that he didn't want to, wouldn't do so later for other, personal rather than primal, reasons. It was simply enough to hold her close, to feel the reassuring warmth of her without the urge to consume her life's energy. To know she was there. And that he could be with her without necessarily harming her.

Later, later he would kiss her. Long and slow, and deep. Without the horrible hunger driving him, he would take his time with Penny until desires entirely their own hastened their knowing of each other.

For now, he held her. And it was enough.

...

"Whoa," Will said, watching the video feed on the monitor with a little bit of shock as the dark-haired visitor unexpectedly jumped the head of the London Sanctuary. And Macrae seemed quite happy to receive her.

"I thought you said he was cured." He attracted Helen Magnus' attention to the amorous scene unfolding in high def on the computer screen. Granted though, the pair only appeared to be cuddling, whereas previously the afflicted man would've probably already had his tongue in her throat.

Glancing briefly at the image, Magnus smiled.

"Pre-existing condition," she said, winking at Will.

The young man chuckled as his enigmatic boss left the room, sobering slightly as he found his eyes lingering on the sway of the soft curves of her figure. Was there just something magnetic about the heads of house in the Sanctuary network, that drove persons under their employ mad with carnal thoughts?

END

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**A/N: Random, awkward ending? Sort of left hanging, but admittedly, I have been playing with Declan and Penny some more...  
**


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